Then his mood changed. A bright gleam came into his eye, a smile played upon his lips. Another friend had come to mind--Daisy Lawton. Daisy was a great deal in Ray's thoughts lately--more than he himself perhaps realized. He recalled her narrow escape at the picnic, and somehow he felt a thrill of satisfaction deep down in his heart that it was _his_ father who had saved her, though at the expense of his own life. Had not that act in a measure atoned for the stain that had rested upon his father's name? Would he not dare now to speak of a matter that had long been hid in his heart, and which he had felt he dare not make known with that father's disgrace still resting upon him? It certainly seemed to him that the father's heroic death altered the whole situation. He could not help feeling it did. Anyway, by-and-by he would venture to speak to Daisy of this matter which so intimately concerned him at least. Nor did he think that she would be altogether indifferent respecting it. "What a friend she has been to me all these years!" he thought, his heart swelling with joy and gratitude. There was, as the reader has already discovered, a deeper feeling there--a feeling of deep, passionate love. He was slowly waking up to it; but he did not know it was to cost him the greatest struggle of his life. His thoughts so pre-occupied his mind he did not notice that the shades of night had already fallen heavily around, and that a dense fog, drenching everything it touched, was slowly rolling up the bay. Nor did he notice that a boat, with a single oarsman therein, was pulling down the harbor directly toward him, until he heard his name called. Looking up almost in alarm at the suddenness of the call, he saw the boat had stopped a rod or two away; and the occupant, whoever he was, now called again: "Ray, is that you?" There was something familiar in those tones, and yet Ray could not tell who it was. He promptly answered, however: "Yes; but who are you?" The boatman, instead of replying, resumed his oars and came directly into the wharf. Jumping out of the boat, he fastened it to a ring in the dock, and then turned and faced the lad. "Ray, don't you know me?" he asked. Again there was something familiar in the man's tones, but surely that tall, robust, and well-dressed man was a stranger. "No, sir," replied Ray, after scrutinizing him for a few minutes, "I do not think I do, though your voice seems familiar." "Four years such as I have seen make a vast difference in a man. No wonder you do not know me," the gentleman remarked, somewhat sadly. Four years! Those two words let a flood of light stream into Ray's mind. "Tom!" exclaimed he; "can it be possible it is you?" "Yes; it is no other," the man replied, with a pleasant laugh. "I don't wonder you are surprised to see me." "I certainly am," replied Ray, with heartiness, "and I'm glad you have returned. But where is Dick?"